


Guardian

by PlotWitch



Series: Suicide (I Understand) [1]
Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton
Genre: Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-22
Updated: 2006-07-22
Packaged: 2019-03-15 21:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13621638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotWitch/pseuds/PlotWitch
Summary: Edward finds himself struggling with his own demons, as well as Anita’s when his self-imposed guardianship falters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Magyar available: [Őrangyal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13621917) by [Xaveri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xaveri/pseuds/Xaveri)



Guardian, my name means. Wealthy guardian, in old English.

I suppose it’s true enough, when you think of it literally. I haven’t worried about money for a long time. That part was easy. But my guardianship… I think I’ve failed it.

She’s alive. But so close to the edge. She doesn’t even know it. And I, I must keep her from stepping over. At every turn, at every moment, without ever letting her know the truth. I think that the truth would break her. I don’t how, it’s just…

I just know it.

I’m safe for her. Off limits in her mind, a friend, sometimes. A safe harbor in the storm, the steady point in her life. I never change. Not to her. Not ever to her.

If only she knew. God, if only she knew how much I love her.

She trusts me. With her life. A failing of hers, I think as I sit at a window, in the house across from hers, silent in the darkness. I have various pieces of surveillance equipment set up around me, and I am watching her. Watching her as she stands, alone for the moment, in her kitchen at her sink.

Her shoulders are hunched, her head is bowed. She is crying.

She’s crying, and my hands hold tighter to the gun on my lap. As much as I’d like to, there’s nothing I can do to fix whatever hurt she’s been dealt this time. There’s nothing I can do to fix anything. They’ve caught her, well and truly, in nigh unbreakable bonds to them.

All of them, even when they don’t mean to.

I’ll have to remind her that they’re there, I think. She forgets them so easily when her life becomes quiet. When the only problems are the ones that have them, and not me. Me or any of the other humans in her life.

She forgets us often. Forgets that she was once one of us. Immerses herself in the lives of her monsters so deeply that, for all of the human blood in her veins, she might as well be one of them.

It hurts me to think of it. Cuts me deeply, swift and sharp and bleeding inside as I think of her.


	2. Chapter 2

She’s alone as I kneel at her door, fine wire tools held careful and delicate in my hands. I feel the spring give as I turn the lock, and the door swings inward on silent hinges. All is as it should be in the house, there is nothing but silence.

“Oh, God,” I hear, echoed softly, muffled through the house.

Her voice is pale and dull, pained. For a moment I think that I was wrong, that someone is there. That someone is with her, that maybe she’s taking the advice I give her at least. But no, that would never happen. She’d more likely be wrapped up with one of the creatures.

A quiet sob. “I can’t do this,” she whispers to no one, and I hear the faint scrape of metal.

My pulse quickens as I creep past her dark and empty living room, the white couch that I have drank coffee on so many times a large, lifeless lump in my peripheral vision. Happier times, those, when I could irritate her just by the thought of coffee spilt on it.

I pause at the corner, the junction where kitchen, hall and living room meet. A darkened passage where anyone could be hiding. A pale rectangle of light puddles outside the kitchen, and I carefully step into it, my gun loosely held in front of me. Aimed, but not ready to shoot anyone.

Because, I think, whatever danger she’s in, it’s not deadly.

The knife in her hand gives lie to that belief. It’s once shiny blade is now flecked with blood, glistening and bright in the light. She’s staring at it, fascinated by the deadly color of her own blood, the way it drips down her hands and on to the cold tile floor.

“Anita.” I breathe her name, not intending to speak anything aloud, but the shock is so great that I can’t suppress it.

She startles; her head jerking up, coffee-dark eyes wide in alarm. The knife falls from suddenly weak hands, clattering along the edge of the counter before hitting the floor and leaving morbid crimson splatters across the cabinets.

She braces herself against the counter, blood running freely down her arms and pooling to leave an outline of her hand when she begins to slide to her knees. She looks so surprised to see me, has it really been that long since I snuck in? Or is it only the shock that I’m the one to find her this way?

“Edward,” she says slowly, thick with pain. “What—” She stops as she swallows, and finally hits her knees, crumpling into a ball on the floor. For a moment I begin to panic before reasserting my self-discipline. She looks dead, for that one moment where I struggle.

Then I began to note the way her chest is rising and falling, the way her eyes are large and glassy, but not dull, not yet. The way the blood is still sliding from the deep wounds she’s inflicted on herself.

It only takes moments before I’m on my knees beside her, one of her plain kitchen towels strung out between my hands and winding swiftly around one wrist. I brush the hair back from her face, leaving a bloody streak on her forehead.

“Did you do anything else, Anita?” I ask in an empty tone. I wanted to shout at her, to yell and rant and rave and tell her that no matter what she could always have come to me. I could have helped; I would have done anything before. But I know that she won’t accept it from me.

Instead, I try and make sure that the only thing I have to stop before help comes is the bleeding. If she’s poisoned herself, if she’s taken anything to ensure her own death, it will already be too late.

She shakes her head slowly, very slowly, staring up at me as I find another towel and knot it around her other arm. She opens her mouth, lips parting so slightly and I hear her mind turning. I place a finger to her lips; thankfully it isn’t drenched in blood.

“Sh, Anita. Stay still,” I say as I slip my cell phone from my pocket. I dial the numbers without looking at it, already knowing the keys and their locations from experience.

Not surprisingly, they already know the way to her house. But it will still take precious minutes to reach her, and until then I am the only thing standing between her and death.

The thought frightens me and, as unaccustomed as I am to the emotion, my hands begin to shake. I have already failed her once, by letting her come to this, the path of the last resort. I didn’t see that she was being buried by everything in her life; I didn’t see that she was this lost.

The muscles in my jaw tighten, and I will my hands steady again as I press them against the towels that are now coloring red. The self control that I use is hard won, and I try not to think of what will happen if I let her die.

The towels are now soaked through, I start to curse silently. There is enough blood on the floor for two dead men, and still no ambulance. There is so much blood, I think, wondering how she is still alive. I don’t dare let go of her still bleeding wrists long enough to find more towels.

I can’t let her die.

I’m broken out of my thoughts by the sound of her voice. “What are you doing here?” she asks evenly, as if she’s not about to die as I hold on to her.

I laugh, the sound of it harsh and almost desperate. “Does it matter?” I say, not expecting an answer. “Anita, why?” This time, the pain, the fear, the utter terror I feel at the thought of losing her coming through.

She closes her eyes, and I squeeze my hands tightly. She gasps, her eyes shooting open and nearly rolling back in her head before I realize exactly what I’m doing. “Edward,” she whispers, drawing my name out on her lips.

I could only wish to hear it said like that under other circumstances.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I press my lips to her forehead, trying not to remember the many times I’ve done the very same thing. Ignoring the sweet scent that is solely her, hiding beneath the metallic tang of blood, fresh spilt. Desperately trying not to think that maybe, just this once, it would be okay to kiss _her_.

The faint sound of a siren drifts to my ears, and I jerk my head up, trying to guess how far away they are. The sound is growing at a fast pace; they are racing toward her, to save her.

In my eager wishing for the ambulance to arrive that much faster I don’t see that her eyes have slipped close. When I look down my heart stops. The blood has slowed and if she breathes, I don’t see it. I take a breath, hoping that I am mistaken, that my mind is playing tricks on me.

It isn’t.

Anita lays there, pale, silent and still. As unassumingly beautiful in death as she ever was in life. My breath hitches in my chest, and I press my ear to hers. There is no beat of a heart, no swift rushing of blood. Nothing. Silence.

I cry out, “No.” 

She can’t be dead.

I press my mouth to hers, willing her to live from the breaths I push into her mouth and lungs. My hands instinctively press down on her chest, beginning to force her heart to beat, however unwilling she is to continue on.

I will not let her die; I will not fail in my guardianship.

I will not fail her.

“Please,” I whisper as I seal my lips over hers again, a kiss even more intimate than any I had imagined. I am sharing my life with her, not just my heart, or even soul.

My life, I think, and I feel the stuttering rhythm as her heart picks up again. My fingers slide to her neck feeling for the pulse, watching as her chest rises and then falls to rise again. Then I am being shoved away. The paramedics have arrived while I am fighting for her life.

They have taken over, and I stumble backwards, coming to rest against the far wall. I stare down at my hands, now covered in her blood, and begin to wipe rub them down my jeans. I have her blood on my hands, I think. It will ever be so, and I can’t escape it.

If she dies, no matter what I have done to save her this night, it will still be on my hands.


	3. Chapter 3

She’s alive, for the time being. Two surgeries, countless transfusions, and three days later, she is alive and barely stable. And they can’t stop the bleeding. I can hear them talking as I slump in the chair by her bed. They’ll need to airlift more blood in if they don’t stop it soon.

Her blood isn’t rare, but it’s much in demand. There isn’t enough to go around, and without it she may die.

No, not may. Without it she _will_ die. But they won’t say it so harshly anywhere near me. I’ve already made comments when there were unexplainable things. Comments that I shouldn’t have been able to, because I should never have heard the questions.

I know why she hasn’t died, but they won’t listen to me. They can’t even begin to understand how she’s tied her life to things that aren’t human. Truthfully, neither can I. Not really.

No, that’s not true. I can understand, even if I can’t agree. She did it for love. A pitiful, pitiful thing, if that love drove her to the edge. But how can I say that? I am no better than she.

I slouch lower in the chair, ignoring the rustling papers as the herd of doctors and medical students leave. They have finished their rounds in the ICU for now, and won’t be back for another few hours. I have that much time at least, before I need to move again.

She’s pale. Porcelain skin framed by the night dark curls. Her eyes are closed, the lids so pale and wan that they seem blue. It is the only color to her face, the only color she has across her body. She’s still, a living ghost, trying to flee from the nightmare of her own creation.

I sigh and say her name. The sound of my voice barely carries over the low hum and beeps of the machines. So pale. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the faint rising of her chest. It was reassuring, that there was still some life in her. Even if she didn’t want it anymore.

I lower my head, hands covering my face, blocking out everything but the sound of machines. My eyes burn, and I struggle not to give in to the despair I feel. But I can still feel them. Twin trails of heat down my cheeks, mingling with the coarse beard I have grown in the past forty-eight hours.

I hear my voice again. “I can’t do this.” A haunting echo of Anita’s desperate prayer before she did the unthinkable. It sends chills down my spine, and I shudder at the thought.

But I don’t take the words back.

Watching her, waiting for her to die or live, it’s so hard. So terribly hard and painful. Would that someone else had found her. Maybe then she could have had the peace she had wanted so badly.

But I had found her, and like the others, I too loved her selfishly. Too selfishly to allow her to die and leave me behind. That was what was echoing through me, the guilt for not allowing her that final request of death. No matter that a part of me knows that this is not how she would wish to go.

If there was ever anyone who would rather go down fighting instead of giving up, it is Anita. All I have to do I remind her.

Somehow, if she wakes up.

I scrub my face viciously with my hands to hide the last remnants of the tears and force my face back into a pale imitation of my usual mask. I know that it is not completely empty, but this once I don’t care. There is no one here, save myself and Anita, and she will never see it to tell.

She would never see it and tell. She has seen me without my masks, without my armor against the world. And she never betrayed the trust I gave her.

I swallow against the knot in my throat, then look at her and sigh. The bandages are seeping red again; she’s trying to bleed out. Carefully I stand. I know that she can’t hear me, but still I worry to disturb her.

The halls in the ICU are quiet. The only sound is that of machines and the occasional sounds of crying. Understandable, though I never imagined I would count myself as one of those poor souls praying for a loved one.

The nurse is at the desk, reading a magazine. She looks up and smiles, sad and soft. She knows that people are here to die. “She’s bleeding again,” I say. There’s no need to say who, the fact that she won’t stop bleeding makes her unique in the ICU.

She nods and I turn away, trying to ignore the worried call she places to the doctor. It’s the third time in the last few hours that she’s called for the doctor, for more blood. But they are bound by their oaths to try and save her, no matter what.

I sit back down in my chair, leaning back, watching and waiting. Soon they will be here with more dark red bags of blood. Soon they will begin to bleed into her, and then I will wait for them to bleed back out. Soon, I think, and am not surprised when several people, two men and a woman, come in.

Their white coats are flapping irritably around their legs and their voices are hushed and frenzied. They don’t see me, not where I sit in the corner. I am behind them and can hear every word they say.

The woman speaks. “We’ll have to wait, there’s none left in the bank downstairs.” She is absentmindedly twisting a strand of medium brown hair where it falls over her shoulder. It has escaped from the sloppy bun she has her hair in, and I think for a moment that I have never seen Anita that way. Absentminded and sloppy.

One of the men turns. “There were a dozen units there not an hour ago.”

The third lays a hand on the edge of the bed. “It was all used for a multiple GSW. What they didn’t use, she did,” he says, nodding at Anita.

The first man yanks his glasses off, he is angry. “Why isn’t there any left here? We’re supposed to be stocked.”

“O negative is always in hot demand.” The woman now.

I start to shift in the chair. I hadn’t ever paid attention to Anita’s blood type before. I didn’t know that she is O negative. But I know about the blood type, and how hard it can be to find enough for repeat transfusions. Especially, repeat transfusions.

I’ve lived with it for thirty-two years.

I slide my hands along the material of the chair arms and push myself to my feet. They all turn to me, startled, and I position myself as casually unobtrusive as I can.

“I’m O negative,” I offer softly.

They glance at each other, then I see relief cross their faces. “Walking donors it is.”


	4. Chapter 4

I sit in my chair, watching now as the second of three bags of blood drain into her. I talked them into it; they didn’t want to take so much blood. But they had no choice, Anita needed it and I could spare it.

The bleeding has slowed some more, though not enough to prevent her from bleeding to death if we don’t watch her. I wonder why I’m forcing this, forcing her to live. Because I love her? Because I need her?

I sigh. Life is too complicated. Too short. I stand, steeling myself against the sudden dizziness of losing so much blood. My left arm aches at the crook of my elbow. They pierced two different veins for the blood, and it stings still.

But she is alive.

And now my blood flows through her veins. If anything, my own determination for her to live should help. I touch her hand at the wrist, feeling the steady, if thready pulse. It’s not fading, but getting stronger as blood drains from the bag.

I ignore the fresh white bandages that wrap her arm a hairsbreadth from my fingers. Instead, I slide my fingers down to hers, laying my palm flat and then holding her hand.

“Please,” I whisper into the night. “Please, God.”

My quarrels with God are my own, but Anita has served Him faithfully for all her life. Not even He would sentence her to this hell, not after all she’s done. Not after all that she has accomplished for Him.

“Help her,” I say more loudly, though still hushed. “Heal her.”

I wait.

I truly didn’t expect anything. Bright flashes of light and blindingly loud thunder seem too cliché to expect. I didn’t really expect anything. I wasn’t disappointed.

In the silence nothing happened, not so much as a flutter to her eyes. Anita’s God will not help her. Then I will. Besides, it won’t be the first time I’ve played god. And it won’t be the last time.

I bend down to press my lips to her forehead, swaying as another dizzy spell slides through me. It is unexpected, and I lean onto the bed, hand pressing into hers. She takes a sharp, deep gasping breath, and I realize that I have hurt her.

I also realize that she is no longer asleep in her dreamless world. She is awake; eyes open and so close to vacant that they make me shiver. I have seen that expression before. It is the look at those who are damned, who know that they are in hell.

“Anita,” I say, and her head moves slightly. Her eyes come to rest on me and I smile at her. A small smile, but one that conveys my relief.

“Edward?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

I slide back into myself as easily as I ever did, tucking the frayed edges of my emotions back behind a cool and impassive mask. “Saving your life. Again,” I say with a hint of a smile as I nod my head toward the almost empty bag.

I glanced at the wall behind it to the clock. They would be bringing in the last of the blood shortly, and I wanted to be gone. I wanted to make it possible that she would need no more.

Anita begins to sit up and abruptly slides back. I am at her side in an instant, supporting her and laying her back down. My fingers brush the skin above her bandages and I hope that I haven’t pulled any of the stitches.

“You shouldn’t do that, Anita,” I say softly. I grab the glass of water on the table next to her bed and bend the straw down to her lips. “Drink some; it’ll help you feel better.”

She does so obediently and then sighs. “I really screwed up, didn’t I?”

I shake my head. “No. it would only have been a screw up if I hadn’t been there,” I say.

“So tired,” she whispers to me. Her eyes are closed again, and she is sliding back into sleep.

I lean over and again kiss her forehead. I do not dare touch my lips to hers. It would help nothing and most likely cost me her friendship. There is no dizziness this time, and I stroke her cheek as she begins to breathe evenly.

Before I leave I whisper one last thing into her ear. “My blood flows in your veins now. Take strength from me.”

I hope that it is enough.


	5. Chapter 5

It is near to dawn when they finally arrive. I am angry, and let them see how much. They have waited and waited, while her life dwindles away through the pristine white bandages that always, always soak through crimson.

The wolf looks tired and pale, unusual for him given his lycanthropy and natural skin tone. The vampire is, as always, translucent. But he, too, looks exhausted. As thought something was draining their energy.

Or someone, which is what I have guessed.

If Anita truly wished to die, she would already be dead. But now she does not, or at least I hope from what she has said before lapsing back into rest. Instead, she has created a vacuum inside her triumvirate, from which she is pulling all energy.

If I am right, she has no control over this because the only strength she has is what she gains from it, none that is her own, and as such no control. She will continue declining until they are all dead, or someone stops it. By either killing her…

Or killing them.

And three desperate phone calls later, I have them here, and an incantation. I have a means to save her, but only with their cooperation. Which they will give, because they love her. Unabashedly, desperately, hopelessly. They love her.

The vampire speaks first, one hand pale and graceful against the wall, while the wolf slouches next to him. “We are come, _mon ami_ , as you have requested.”

His mouth twists at the last word, because I did not request. I demanded, I threatened. I very nearly begged.

“You said you have a way?” the wolf interjects before I can make a cold retort.

I nod and draw a knife. A silver knife that is barely high enough in its steel content to hold an edge. A silver knife that has been thrice blessed for its purpose. A sacrificial knife.

They look at it, faces blank and simple. They do not know what I intend. They are already next to useless in this endeavor, they with their tearful faces and breaking hearts. They do not understand.

“Did she… with that?” the wolf asks.

My jaw clenches. He should know better, he should be able to smell the lack of blood. I shake my head and glance at the vampire. They truly don’t know.

Of course, neither do I, but I’m not stupid and have managed to put most of the pieces of the puzzles together. Most of it. I still can’t fathom why Anita would choose to run instead of fight. But then, I have never been her, with her loyalties torn asunder, and her heart stretched in an attempt to love everyone she touches.

“She did this because of you. She wanted out, and she tried to take it.” My voice is hard, without sympathy. I don’t care if they hurt; I want them to hurt more. The more guilt they have, the easier it will be for me.

The only sound for several minutes is their breathing, and I wait impatiently for the right moment to make the move. The sun is nearly to the horizon and I can see a certain lassitude begin to infect the vampire. It is time.

“You love her, do you not?” I ask, my voice harsh, tight, dangerous in the silence. My hands clench ever so slightly around the knife in my hand. This is not a thing for guns, what I am about to do.

They nod, silently. They are still reeling from the shock of what she has done to herself. I hold the knife out in front of me, blade even with the floor, edge out toward them to show my intent. They look at it, then back to me, realization beginning to dawn on them.

“You would die for her?”

A whispered plea, it is all I can say. They nod, heads bowing as understanding follows my words. I lower the knife, lay my hand on each of their shoulders for only a moment. It is the best I can do, say, and will change nothing.

“If I could, I would,” I say before drawing the blade across their throats. Soft words in a forgotten language, “Ab etesiae abeo accedo, autem annuus.”

Then nothing as they slump to the floor, eyes open and staring.

Blood pools at my feet, warm and steaming as I stare down at them. I look up just in time to see the sun break the horizon. It is done. Whatever may happen, I have done all that I could.

And now, now I pray, that it is enough.


	6. Chapter 6

She is awake and staring up at the ceiling when I return. Her face is still pale, though not as death, and her eyes are shadows. She knows that they are dead; I can read it in them.

What I can’t read is if she knows who killed them. And why.

“I feel better,” is all she says, and I take my customary seat in the corner.

“Why did you do it?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, only lays there staring up. I stare at the still white bandages on her arms. There is no more bleeding now, the energy released back into her has healed her, at least partially. I don’t worry about her dying now from something that her body can’t fix.

Instead, I worry that she’ll do it again, that her will to die is stronger than her will to live.

“I was in hell,” she says suddenly. She is still staring at the ceiling, and for a moment I think that she’s referring to her time in the comatose state. It takes a bit longer for it to sink in that she was living in hell. Her own personal hell from which she had only one escape.

“You could have asked for help,” I offer.

“From who?” she asks with vehemence. “You? Ronnie? Any one of the humans in my life?”

She shakes her head and pulls herself up to look at me. Her eyes are hot with anger and pain and, I think, sadness, though I don’t know what for. “If I couldn’t handle it, how was anyone else supposed to?”

I force my face blank and simply stare. “Asking for help doesn’t mean getting someone else to do it for you. Just to help you deal with it.”

I stand to leave. This fight will get us no where. It will get her no where but angry and confused again.

I don’t fear her dying now, for at least a time she’ll be forced to stay in the hospital. After that… After that I’ll be there again. Watching her. Resuming the torn and frayed mantle of my guardianship and trying to perform it better. After that… Maybe she’ll live again.

I don’t know.

I pause at the door when I hear my name spoken in a soft voice hoarse with tears.

“Edward, why do you even care?”

I stare. Then I let the mask down for a moment, just a moment, and smile at her. Just a little, just enough for her to begin to trust me again, to believe me. Just enough so she will know the truth of my words.

“Because, Anita,” I say as I not so discreetly adjust the cuffs of my sleeves, yanking them back from my own wrists in a rough manner. “I understand.”

Then I walk away ignoring the faint surprise on her face, pulling my cuffs back down to cover my own pale pink and white scars, still shiny and tender.


End file.
